A crow calls from somewhere

Waking up disoriented and in the context of you. You, as in the Other - the one I had to kill myself to know. I haven't been in this place for awhile. I lived in here acutely for several years, eventhough we actually spent only a few months together, and then visited, like a ghost, too often for many years after that. From despair to flight to a new and deeper, more pervasive desolation than I'd ever known before. Mythical. How I loved and hated then. How I burned. I was so often hungry and cold in those days. Acute. The rooming house days. I learned to listen for your scratching at the door. Learned to sense you through walls. Your beauty, the warmth of your body, passion - such a contrast to that stark city of winter. Your Spanish eyes and what they did to me. Rescue. Respite, for a while. The absolute decadence of drinking sweetened iced tea and eating ice cream together on my mattress. Mickey's bus of white and blue. He drove us in the service of love. The supreme act of kindness, care, love in the roast beef and cream cheese sandwich you made for me. I was restored at once. Beyond restored - made anew. You made me want to live too. You heightened my senses beyond the point of unbearable. And you lasted, eventhough you didn't stay, for such a long time. Even now.